


Just a Kiss

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (only I love me some exposition), AG Secret Santa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I don't think I need to say more than that, Stuck in an airport with a layover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:36:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa is stuck in an airport overnight. How ever will she find someone to pass the time with...?





	Just a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> [My secret santa gift for the lovely @weekendsareforwhisky (now without an E) on tumblr. I really hope you like it!
> 
> Admittedly this is inspired by my way home from vacation last month, and I will say that mine was a lot less eventful in the end than this will be lol. Anyways, I hope you have a wonderful holiday/winter! :)
> 
> Note: this is unedited because it’s like 9 in the morning lmao ]

 

           Sansa’s lungs were on fire, and her breath ragged bursts of air. If she  _ could _ have spoken at this very moment, it would be nothing short of a half dozen  _ fuck’s _ in between the other half dozen  _ shit’s _ .

_ You’ve got to be kidding me _ .

           “Sorry, miss,” said the man in the middle of the hall, arms open to block her way forward. Sansa stumbled, her legs jelly and her right shoulder burning from her bag’s strap. “But the plane’s already taxiing.”

_ Fuck my life _ .

           Sansa swallowed several deep breaths before she spoke, pulling a smile on her mouth even though she was tired and aching and wanted nothing more to get her ass on that plane and sleep. It was the day from hell, and it wasn’t even over yet. “Oh, I see.”

           The attendant gave her a practiced apologetic look. Likely she hadn’t been the first person to miss her flight, but she would at least keep from making a scene. Manners were hardwired into her very being, thanks to rigorous schooling and the oft chance of a ruler striking her hand. The septas were all but military dictators save for their plain dresses.

           The man gestured behind Sansa. “You can check with the desk about your flight.”

           Sansa looked over her shoulder. There was another lady — red-faced and panting — head resting against the counter. She had a bulging bag of sweets and souvenirs, and even from the distance Sansa could tell she was barely keeping it together. Back to the attendant, Sansa muttered a, “Thanks.”

           “Ticket, please.” Sansa handed it over, silently overhearing the other passenger’s plight. She’d been up for nearly twenty hours and missed two flights already. Sansa had an offer of  _ Hey let’s wait it out together _ , except the lady was going to the States and a different terminal.

           “The next flight is at eight ten tomorrow morning.”

           Sansa balked. It was ten at night ( _ ten oh six _ , and her plane was likely shooting off down the runway right now). “There’s nothing earlier?”

           The man behind the counter shook his head. 

           There was nothing to do — literally; everything was closed in this blasted airport — but nod and take her new ticket. 

           She shuffled off to the bathroom to wash up as best she could (at least it was empty) before calling home.

           “Yes Sansa?”

           “I didn’t make the flight.”

           “Ah.” Her father told her as much when she texted him when she landed. It was a tight squeeze already, and  _ of course _ everything was slow and far. Sansa vowed never to fly through this airport again. “When do you get in tomorrow?”

           She did some quick math. “Noon-ish. I think.”

           It was, of course,  _ Christmas _ tomorrow. Sansa knew coming home on Christmas Eve was a stretch (and more than a pretty penny. It was illegal how much they charged in December when Sansa found the same flight for a third of the price in any other month. A fact she was not willing to divulge to her mother). “I can take an Uber, it’s okay.”

           “No, no,” Ned interrupted. “I think we can get one of the boys to go get you. Noon, huh?”

           “Yeah.”

           In the background of the call, Sansa heard her mom ask if it was her and what was going on. Ned responded (without moving the phone away from his mouth).

           “Your mother wants to know what you’ll be doing between now and your flight.”

           Sansa glanced at the rows of incredibly uninviting airport chairs. It was that, or the floor, and the night crew were vacuuming those up. “Find somewhere to sleep for a bit.” She’d managed to fall asleep in worse situations back in university, and she was dreadfully tired. Something told her she’d be lucky to get more than three hours tonight.

           “Good. And—" he listened to Cat, relaying the question, "—are there other people around there waiting with you?”

           As she walked down the terminal to her new gate, Sansa so far passed a dozen other unfortunate travelers, half of whom were a family with two crying babies. Sansa thanked the Seven she wasn’t going to be on the flight with them. “Yes. I’m not alone, and there’s plenty of workers here too.”

           “Good.”

           “I’ll message you when I get on the plane. And when I land. And when I pick up my bag.” 

           “Good, good. I’ll make sure one of the boys is there to pick you up.”

           “Thanks.”

           Sansa eyed the various closed shops as she trudged through the terminal, with its bright lights and drunk carpets. It was the lovechild of a bowling alley and theatre carpets. There were two separate Starbucks (so far), and enough food places to grab something for breakfast when they opened later (or earlier? It was strange enough with the time difference).

           “Did you want to keep talking?” It was her mother, this time.

           Sansa yawned (half fake). “I’m pretty tired. And annoyed. I just want to try and get some sleep.”

           “Okay babykins. Make sure there are people where you sit, and—"

           “There are,” Sansa cut off. “There was another lady who missed her flight.”

           “The same as yours?”

           “Yes,” Sansa lied. “I’ll be safe.”

           The worry was oozing from the speaker as Cat reluctantly said, “Okay. Good night, Sansa. Remember we’re going to Lysa’s party tomorrow. 2 o’clock.”

           “Yes, I remember.”  _ It’s not like I wanted to miss my flight. The party, though… _

           “Okay, Sansa. Good night. Love you.”

           “Good night, mom, love you too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

           She hung up and breathed. It was no use lying she was dying to sleep in her own bed, and the prospect of trying to be comfortable in those abominations of design was the opposite of appealing. She worked through her schedule as she fished for her blanket at the bottom of her bag: eight am departure, so seven am boarding, so six thirty am wake up at the latest to go to the bathroom and get coffee and breakfast. If she slept right now, she had the potential of a solid eight hours.

           As if.

           The vacuum was loud when it roared by (on too many occasions; it sounded like the cleaners did one spot at a time before jumping to a different gate). The TV played a combination of news and travel programs. Announcements about safety and how honored the airport is to have her traveling through it rang off every five minutes. The lights were on a sensor, and the aforementioned haphazard vacuums triggered it too often.

           She would murder someone for anything resembling a bed right now.

* * *

           By four am, Sansa gave up on sleep.

           She dozed off three times, and got almost two hours combined. 

           Around one, someone else took the row of chairs across from her, and they seemed to have better luck sleeping than she did. At least, they didn’t turn about as much.

           Sansa gathered her bags and headed off to the bathroom, taking her stall (so dubbed because she wandered to it every other hour). Starbucks sounded good, if only because she knew she wasn’t going to sleep anymore than she already had. That, and Sansa figured the last few hours back to Winterfell would at least provide her with another nap. Thank the gods for window seats.

           More passengers waited in the various gates, struggling to sleep. One man wasn’t even trying, paying too much attention to the screens that were now explaining the culture of someplace Sansa didn’t catch. 

           She opted to walk the length of the terminal (for want of something to pass the time), knowing she wouldn’t be at a loss for Starbucks on the way there. She wasn’t, of course. 

           There was one barista and two customers, one of which was a flight attendant. Her hair was perfectly made up, and she scrolled through her phone as though it wasn’t dead o’clock. Sansa stared at the pastries in the window, wondering whether or not to indulge now or wait until the proper shops opened up in a few hours. There were overpriced, but so was everything in the airport.  _ Fuck it, this day has been long enough already _ .

           She opted for a slice of lemon cake to go with her peppermint mocha.  _ Merry Christmas _ ...

           A plane landed as she waited for her drink. Passengers strolled down the aisle, relief obvious on their faces to have made it home early enough on Christmas morning. A scant few joined the line for coffee, checking connecting flights on their phones.

           Seven hells, it was  _ Christmas morning _ . Sansa pressed her fingers against closed eyelids and rolled her tired eyes. It felt like an entire year went by since she woke up to leave yesterday morning. It was...just past one back home. With any luck, Rickon was shuffled off to bed without too much fuss. He was the last Stark to still believe in Santa despite being halfway through middle school. No one spoiled it for him, because honestly, Sansa missed being that young. Adulthood sucked.

           Rickon wasn’t alone, of course. Their cousin Robert still believed in Santa, too, and was Rickon’s age. Though there was something different about him than Rickon. With Dicky, Sansa wanted nothing more than to keep egging on the magic of Christmas and tell him all of the stories from their father’s religion that led to the modern idea of Santa and reindeer and trees. Robert, on the other hand, Sansa wanted nothing more than to shut him up. 

           Her aunt was to blame. Lysa indulged her son’s imagination too much, going as far as hiring a Santa one year to bring in Robert’s gifts and getting it on camera. Robert bragged about it — still brags about it. They had bets on when he would realize it was all fake. Sansa’s was eleventh grade, while Arya’s was him being thirty.

           They both had an equal shot being right.

           “Peppermint mocha.”

           Sansa turned to grab her drink, cradling it in her hands. The lack of sleep made her cold, and she didn’t bother waiting before burning the tip of her tongue. It was sweeter than usual; that may have been the tiredness, too.

           She sat on a stool and people-watched. There weren’t many left, the stragglers from the back of the plane. A long line of family came out, each child wearing a hand-knitted sweater and holding the hand of the kid in front of them. There was a couple, two, clinging onto each other and complaining about the cold. None of the hundred people she watched sprinted for their lives to catch a plane (namely because like the shops, the planes all decided to stop flying late last night. She noticed it on the timetable the first of several times she checked her flight gate).

           “Is this seat taken?”

           Sansa startled, dropping her bit of bread. She stared at it in grief; it may have been overpriced, but they sure knew how to make pastries. Reluctantly, Sansa glanced away at her fallen morsel (may the gods usher it to the other side safely). “Um, yes,” she replied, shuffling her bag closer to her under the table.

           “Thanks.”

           From the corner of her eye, she saw his coffee cup first, then his phone, and finally him. Dressed smartly as he was, Sansa couldn’t imagine him rushing off to a family and kids. She carefully tore off another bit of pastry as she shuffled a hand through her hair, dragging it to the side of her face. Not to hide from him, but to hide her curious staring. He looked about how she expected a businessman to look.

           There wasn’t much to do in an airport in the dead of night, anyways.

           “Where are you off to?”

           As casually as she could, Sansa sipped at her mocha. The whipped cream was torn apart by the drink, like clouds after a heavy rain. “Westeros.” It was a vague enough answer, and she hoped he wasn't some creep. At least there was the line and the barista for witnesses.

           “Me too.”

           “Hmm.” Sansa played uninterested, even if she wasn’t. Sad to say, but a stranger sitting next to her in a Starbucks was the most interesting thing to happen to her in the last six hours, assuming sprinting through an airport to miss a flight didn’t count. 

           He took the lid off his cup — black — and blew at his coffee before testing it. “Going home for Christmas?”

           It was because she had literally nothing else to do (and the fact that her family was asleep, as were her friends, and she didn’t feel like wasting data to scroll through social media) that Sansa decided to keep this conversation going. So far, he hadn’t set off her Creep Alarm. And it was meaningless chatter, anyways. “Yes. I was meant to get in at home at—" she checked her watch, "—thirty minutes ago. But I missed my flight, and now I’m here. You?”

           “I’m sorry to hear about that. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long?”

           Sansa shrugged. “I would have liked to not have waited at all.”He smiled as he tried another sip. His gaze was set forward, and she assumed he was only finding a way to kill time too. Not like there was an abundance of things to do in an airport, especially this one. “What about you?” she asked again.

           “Just waiting for my connection. And here I thought a couple of hours was bad.”

           So did she. “Have you ever missed a flight before?”

           The man nodded. “A few, and I’ll admit it’s never fun.” 

           Silence crept in between them for a few moments. In that time, Sansa finished off the lemon bread, crumpling the paper up and successfully tossing it into the bin. Her mocha was half finished, and she was reluctant to finish it. It was because she didn’t want this brief connection to end — not a  _ connection _ , really, but after all that traveling alone she had to admit it was nice talking to someone. Not to mention he didn’t have an accent as heavy as the ones she’d gotten accustomed to (accustomed, but not understood). 

           “Do you travel a lot?” 

           He was halfway through his coffee, too. During the silence, he picked up a coffee stirrer and was twirling it around his thumb. “A fair amount, yes. Part of the business.”

           “And what business is that?”

           “Business.”

           Sansa thought it was a question before realizing he meant the business of business. Money, and all that. From the cut of his jacket and the gleam of his watch, Sansa knew he must have been good at whatever business it was. Probably flew first class, too. And probably didn’t want to be talking to someone his kid’s age in an airport Starbucks.

           Technically, he started the conversation.

           “Going home to your family?” Sansa asked, taking another minute sip.

           He mirrored her. “In a way. My wife—" Sansa felt a dull pain, not sure why, "—has this thing every year with the whole of her family. As her husband, I’m obliged to go.”

           “And your family?” Sansa knew it could very well be a sore subject, and the topic to end their brief stuck-in-an-airport friendship. 

           He shrugged. “I don’t have any.”

           “Oh.” There it was, that knowing regret of  _ You shouldn’t have asked him that _ . “I’m sorry.”

           Another shrug. “I’ve been alone long enough, I’ve almost forgot I had family.” A pause. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m not mad at you.”

_ How did he… _ Sansa swallowed the question. He had to have a daughter, then, her age, to read and identify the subtle shift of her shoulders. Despite his traveling, he must be a good father. 

           “I’m a little worried,” he continued, acting as though Sansa hadn’t made a conversational slight. He  _ said _ she hadn’t, but Sansa felt the guilt of it all the same. “This will be the first time with her family.”

           It was one of those morsels that begged the listener to bite. Sansa did. “How do you mean.”

           “My wife is a bit...eager. I’ve only been married a short time, and yet I have a feeling this party of hers will be more than I’m willing.”

           Sansa took an even smaller sip of her mocha. She could spy the bottom of the cup when she tilted it down. “Does she like Christmas?”

           “More than everyone I’ve met combined.”

           “And I’m guessing you don’t…?”

           The man met her eyes finally — a curious grey-green, shadowed by the lighting — and there were wrinkles there when he smiled. “What gave it away?”

           Sansa shrugged, finding her drink more exciting than answering his question.

           “I’ll admit, I’ll be happier once I’m flying back tonight. Christmas is...too much.”

           “Tonight?”

           He nodded. “Christmas is a holiday, to be sure, but business goes on. Though I’d much rather be back in the office.” His eyes remained on her as he lifted his cup for another sip. “Or, I thought so.”

           Sansa tried not to think on his words. She went for a sip and came up empty. “Oh,” she said, by way of knowing that with her drink, so too did the conversation end.

           This man, she realized, had been carefully sipping his drink too, tilting back the last few drops before setting it down softly. “Would you like to keep talking somewhere more comfortable?”

           Her Creep Alert went off pinging and ringing.

           “Although, if you’d rather… I don’t think you got much sleep, and the lounge at least has chairs that are comfortable for a quick nap.” He reached over for a napkin, wiping off his mouth. “And they have snacks if you’re still hungry.”

_ Be careful _ , echoed her mother’s words among the alarms. Or maybe it was the alarm itself.

           Sansa waited for him to backpedal with a  _ You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to, it’s just an offer _ , but he didn’t. He merely sat there, crumpled napkin in one hand and fingering the lip of his empty cup with the other. 

           She told herself she wanted a nap (even though the coffee running through her veins worked just as well to keep her awake as the tannoy reminding her to stay vigiliant of unattended baggage). She also told herself that this beat wandering down the terminal peering through the gates of shops at tacky souvenirs. 

           They wouldn’t see each other come a few hours. And it was just  _ talking _ .

           And the idea of a comfortable chair had her muscles aching all over again. 

           “Sure.”

* * *

           There was a lone attendant at a desk. It stood dark against a backlit white wall. There weren’t any decorations in this room ( _ this room _ being key here) save for the metal die-cut logo of  _ Westerosi Air _ . It looked as pretentious as Sansa knew the rest of the lounge would be. She could see herself reflected in the ceiling.

           “Mr Baelish,” the attendant said without prompting. Sansa wondered how often this man had to have flown through to be a recognizable face. Sansa, meanwhile, had gone to the smoothie place down the street from her apartment for months before the employees started asking  _ The usual? _

           Yet again, Sansa wasn’t seeping with the aura of money.

           “Tuomas,” the now-named Mr Baelish said. Mechanically, he pulled out his passport and flipped through his phone for his boarding pass. Sansa couldn’t help but look, though all she caught was his name at the top:  _ Mr Baelish, Petyr _ .

           It even sounded like a money name.

           “One guest today?” Tuomas checked the passport against the pass and the man. 

           “Yes, Tuomas, thanks.”

           “Of course, sir.” He handed Mr Baelish’s things back. With an extended hand and a well-rehearsed speech, Tuomas explained the various facilities of this too swanky lounge (likely for Sansa’s benefit). A terrace overlooking the airport perfect for catching the sunrise with a glass of wine in hand — wine which was imported from all over the world, and doubtfully the cheap stuff Sansa got used to in uni. A dining room decked out with on-call chefs to prepare a variety of Westerosi delicacies (likely prepared with  _ the finest of fine ingredients _ ). Private booths with leather chairs from Italy, enclosed cabanas for taking naps during longer layovers, rooms to get work done, and even a fully-deck spa. Sansa pinched her thigh tighter as the spiel went on and on to keep her expression steady. There was no way she would ever have afforded the  _ basic  _ lounges, let alone the first class one, not in a million years.

           Sansa smiled at Tuomas, afraid what sounds might fall from her mouth if she opened it.

           “Come now,” Petyr ushered her off into the lounge before she had second thoughts. 

           They walked through the main room: dark paneled walls reaching up towards another mirrored ceiling, making the room boundless for this earth. Those leather chairs and sofas sat in clusters or by themselves, a few taken up by equally-sharp businessmen and women typing away at laptops. A bar ran half the length of the room, with more bottles than Sansa could identify. It was far more emptier than she expected, being that it was Christmas and Sansa couldn’t have been the only person to have missed her flight. 

           Mr Baelish walked them pass that, towards a winding staircase in the back lined with plush carpet and whose railings glimmered in the light. There were replica masterworks as they ascended, though Sansa wouldn’t be surprised if some  _ were _ the real things.

           Half the second floor was the spa, and in the distance beyond stood the largest set of French doors. Closed as they were now against the cold and night, she could make out the spotty lights of the airfield against the black. 

           They (unfortunately) turned away from the spa, past the cozier enclaves of sofas and chairs, towards one of several alcoves set in the back. They weren’t completely private, the folding doors closing halfway and decorated in neat slots that matched the woodworking throughout. But private  _ enough _ that Sansa imagined the sorts of things to be done tucked away from the rest of the world, as it were.

           And here  _ she _ was. Standing in this secluded alcove, alone with a strange man, in a strange airport. The reality of it hit her like a train.

           “Your whiskey, sir.”

           Sansa balked at the waiter (dressed up as though this was the fanciest steakhouse in King’s Landing and not an airport whose shops closed at ten on the dot). Petyr took the glass with a curt nod. “Thank you, Charles.”

           The attendant looked over at Sansa. If he had worries about her age relative to this man, he said nothing. What else had he seen, sworn to privacy? “Would the madame like something to drink as well?”

           Sansa had a feeling this place wouldn’t card her (her new  _ companion _ being excuse enough). She also felt like she  _ had _ to order something, even if it was four-thirty in the morning while the man across from her took a slow sip of his alcohol, his eyes staring at her above the rim. “Just a water. Please.”

           “Of course.”

           When he was gone, Sansa breathed in deeply, sweeping over the amenities of the alcove. Simply furnished, with soft leather chairs and sofas, marble tables, and mirrors between the offset columns. Instead finding herself inverted above, Sansa found more of the decorative slotwork. There was no bed (thank the gods), but the sofas were likely just as comfortable. She proved it true, settling down on one and hazard to shut her eyes. Where was this place six hours ago?

           “Thoughts?”

           Sansa forced her eyelids open (the earlier coffee seemed to vanish the nanosecond her butt made contact with the sofa). Mr Baelish — no,  _ Petyr _ , he wasn’t her school teacher — looked at her with amusement. “Bit early for whiskey, isn’t it?”

           Petyr had his hand resting against his jaw, “Perhaps. But as I’m sure you’ve found out, time doesn’t work the same in airports as in the real world.”

           That she had to concede. In the past twenty-four hours, it felt like she had been in airports for a few eternities already, and she still had hours to go. At this point Sansa might just cry touching down in Winterfell. 

           “Rather late, I’ll admit,” he began, gently tapping the glass against his jaw once, twice. “Any chance I could have your name?”

           Sansa felt a blush creep up her face. Aside from the impropriety of going with a strange man, she was torn between being more embarrassed at that and having forgotten her manners. “I’m, um, Sansa.”

           “San-sa.” He took a sip, letting the alcohol linger in his mouth, as though he were tasting her name instead. He swallowed it, all while staring at her. “Do you have a boyfriend, Sansa?”

           “I—!” Sansa’s eyes widened, though not nearly as much as that curious smirk on Petyr’s face.

           Charles saved her, arriving with a chilled bottle of water and an equally chilled glass. Sansa motioned for it, stopping herself when Charles undid the cap and poured her first glass for her. “Will the two of you be needing anything else this morning?”

           Morning, night; Sansa checked her watch. 

           “No thank you, Charles. We’ll call if we need anything else.”

           Charles nodded, leaving silently.

           Petyr’s glass rested atop the armrest, his gaze watching the slow slide of ice.

           The businessman-with-a-loving-if-not-slightly-strange-family was gone, Sansa saw. In his place was a dangerous man. Dangerous, because though she ignored it, the peel of her internal alarm went on and on, silenced by the awe of this place, and coming back in full force the moment they were left completely alone. Petyr crossed one leg over the other, his shoe catching the soft lighting (well-worn but precisely clean, and of course leather). They matched his tailored suit, the cufflinks she now spotted (simple square emeralds (real, she knew without a doubt now) lined with silver). His hair — which she thought charmingly messy from flight — now instead looked intentional. As though the whole of him was prepared for a photoshoot for some posh clothing line, rather than milling away the time in an airport with a girl he just met. And Sansa — despite all of the warnings drilled into her about stranger danger and the ilk — followed him.

_ Does he do this often…? _

           Oh yes, this man was  _ dangerous _ . Dangerous, but not awful. Maybe Sansa was trying too hard to reason with herself (and part of her  _ knew _ she was).Something about the way he chose to sit  _ across _ from her rather than beside her, and from the fact that he hadn’t pulled anything ( _ yet _ , whispered her mind). Did him choosing this alcove rather than a cabana with a bed mean anything? Yes, she thought, she hoped.

           Still. Those alarms continued, singing a song of  _ He doesn’t treat girls to first class for free _ .

           Sansa chugged the cold water, hoping (for her sake) the clarity would have her zooming out of his reach.

           “You haven’t answered my question, Sansa.” Petyr glanced up at her.

           “Your...question…?” She lowered the glass. It was a farce, her ignorance, but to be honest Sansa half-hoped he would have dropped the question when Charles arrived. As though Charles’ presence was a sent signal of  _ Hey that’s a little too much for strangers, don’t you think? _

           And his question only emphasized her own curious wondering if this Petyr Baelish pulled the same stunt on all the lost, lonesome girls in the airport. 

           Which was more dangerous, she wondered: admitting  _ no _ , she didn’t have a boyfriend because her ex was only using her for sex; or a lying  _ yes _ , and proceeding to excuse herself for those wretched excuses for chairs downstairs in the  _ commoners class _ . 

           “No, Mr Baelish.”

           An eyebrow cocked. At her answer, at her silent admission that she peeked at his passport. “And why not?”

           “Why…?” Was he going to insinuate—?

           “You’re a charming young lady, it’s a shame for you to be alone come Christmas.”

           She hadn’t been alone last Christmas, or up to recently. Joffrey had been… She bit her mental tongue. Joffrey  _ had _ been a good boyfriend, especially last Christmas, bringing her along for his family’s Christmas party. His mother — the esteemed Cersei — wanted none of their relationship. Sansa felt a momentary glee of running away with Joffre, her boyfriend standing up to his boorish parents because love trumps all. Just like in movies and songs. Joffrey, instead, went along with his mother, teasing Sansa until she could do nothing else but reign in her tears.

           Like an idiot, Sansa thought it had just been the presence of his mother that turned Joffrey heartless. She loved him enough, she  _ wanted _ him to love her the same. He did, for a time. Only the nagging seed had been planted, and Sansa finally saw the roots of it in all that Joffrey did. Bringing her flowers and jewelry, offering to pick her up from late-night classes and club meetings, taking her out to dinner each month. He did all the things a loving boyfriend should...and expected Sansa return his  _ heartfelt favors _ . 

           Margaery and Arianne had tubs of ice cream ready to go when she showed up on their doorstep.

           But pouring all of her heart out to this man seemed as foolish as believing that Joffrey would change. Instead, she said, “I  _ did _ have a boyfriend. But we’re not together anymore.”

           “His fault?”

           It took a second to realize it was a question. Sansa nodded.

           Petyr took another sip. “Then he’s an idiot to start with, and a fool to end with.”

           She couldn’t help but smile at that. 

           “Do you mind me asking when this happened?”

           She did, a little, but the ache was duller than it had been drowning herself with ice cream. “Um, in February. On my, um...birthday…”

           “I see. What an asshole.” 

           Sansa was glad she didn’t have to go through the embarrassment of it.  _ Living _ it had been bad enough. “Thanks.”

           “For what?” He waited until Sansa looked up at him. “I would have beat some sense into him. Not  _ myself _ , of course. That’s no way to treat someone you’re dating, and especially not someone like you.”

_ Someone like you… _

           The ease with which he said it as though the did know each other. Perhaps not like her father (Sansa couldn’t see anyone else replacing her own), but maybe a friend. Or a friend’s father? Something like that.

           Sansa poured herself another glass of water, as though it were alcohol, and the freezing burn of it gave her courage. “And,” she twirled her finger around the bottom edge. “How do you think someone should treat me…?”

           His smile flickered, so fast it could have been her devious imagination. But it wasn’t, not when it returned in full force, an uneven smile that came paired with narrowing eyes. “I could show you.”

           Sansa felt her heart freeze for a minute. “This… That’s a bit improper, isn’t it?”

           He dragged a finger up the side of the glass, catching the condensation. “You asked.”

           She did.

           “It would start with a kiss.” Petyr brought his finger up to his lips, placing the softest kiss to it. And she found she had to pull her gaze away from his finger, finding dark mirth on the man before her. “Or, if you prefer, I could kiss yours.”

           It couldn’t be any worse than Joffrey. And here, alone as they were, she didn’t have to worry about the seething animosity of Petyr’s mother.

           Alone-

           “But! Charles, he’ll—"

           “He won’t be bothering us unless one of us calls for him.” Petyr stared at her while Sansa unraveled the sentence.  _ Unless  _ one _ of us calls for him _ … meaning that Sansa only had to scream for the man and she could be escorted away. Away from the intoxicating presence of this very dangerous, very hungry man before her.

           It was a kiss? It was near enough five in the morning, and surely kisses at five am didn’t count. Surely her mere two hours of sleep only dreamed this up. He was too  _ rich _ and too  _ handsome _ and too  _ everything _ to be real. 

           And if not…

           Just a kiss, she told herself. She would only let him kiss her once (or twice, if he was good), and then she would leave. What harm was there in a kiss? 

           “Okay.” Her voice was weaker than she hoped, knowing (and hating that she knew) it was because of this damned man.

           Petyr smiled at her — the look of a cat stealing into the food; the look, too, of a man knowing he’s won — and downed the rest of his whiskey. Sansa curled up her toes, curled her fingers into her pants, anticipating his slow swagger around the table. Anticipating him cupping her cheek and bending down and pulling her face into his. Anticipating the taste of whiskey on his lips.

           Anticipating everything but the truth: Petyr, instead, lowered his crossed knee and patted his thighs.  _ Come here _ , he said silently, mockingly.

           Sansa took it as  _ Last chance to leave with your purity intact _ , instead of what it might have been (and likely actually was).

           Her feet felt leaden on the agonizingly long trek from her chair to his. She wasn’t sure what to do when her thighs brushed up against his knees. Petyr sat there, watching, waiting. He wasn’t going to give her any hints on  _ how _ to receive this damned kiss, nor was he going to pull her down onto him for  _ more _ than a kiss.

_ Just a kiss, it’s just one a kiss. _

           Sansa lowered herself onto his knees, her legs straddling his. Petyr’s hands circled her waist, as though he’d done this a thousand times. As though  _ they _ had done this a thousand times, and not just this once. His fingers drew circles on her lower back. 

           “And please, Sansa, we’re  _ friends _ .” He said the last word as though they both knew — because they did — that this thing was the furthest from friendship. At best, they were acquaintances, or comrades-in-layovers. “I’m not your teacher. Call my Petyr.”

           He kissed her then, and it  _ was _ the softest she ever had. Softer than any of Joffrey’s. Softer than the kisses she once gave herself in her dreams, before any boy took hold of her heart. His lips indeed tasting like whiskey, and mint, too.

           Petyr pulled away, his teeth slightly dragging across her lower lip. “Would you like another, Sansa?”

           She nodded, despite herself. Sansa couldn’t imagine leaving him with only a single kiss to remember him by. “Yes, Petyr. Please.”

           “Hungry, aren’t you?” he chuckled as he brought his lips back onto hers. It was soft, but hungry. Petyr’s hands pulled her into him, and Sansa couldn’t help but hold onto his shoulders. One thought worried what he might do if she wrinkled his jacket; another worried that  _ this _ kiss would be their last, and she didn’t want to let it end. Her fingers tightened.

           Petyr’s did, too, spreading flat against her back and pulling her tighter until Sansa’s chest met his. If she suffocated here, caught in the arms of a beautiful man, kissing him until they both ran out of air; well, there were worse ways to go.

           His mouth pulled back for a second to kiss her chin, her jaw, before finding her lips again. Petyr’s tongue drew the line of her mouth, and Sansa opened up. Whiskey and mint filled her mouth, and she liked the taste of it. 

           They both decided not to die here, in this kiss ( _ this _ kiss), breaking apart for air. Sansa found a bit of cheek, spurred on by their kiss ( _ kisses _ , she corrected). She couldn’t help the girlish grin. “How...how else do you think I should be treated?” 

           “LIke a princess, of course,” he replied instantly. She felt one of his hands travel up her spine, up and up to the base of her neck, tangling fingers in her hair there. A gentle nudge, and Petyr’s mouth was on her jaw, her neck. “Like a queen.”

           Sansa gasped when Petyr found a particularly sensitive spot, devouring it with tongue and teeth. It was going to leave a mark, she thought absently.  _ I want it to leave a mark _ .

She shifted her hands, too: one cradling the base of his neck, the other combing through his hair. It was softer than it looked, and this close she spied streaks of grey interspersed with the black. It made him look older than he was. It made him look hotter.            

           He pulled his mouth away from that lovely spot, trailing his lips up the vein in her neck. He reached the edge of her jaw, just below her ear, nipping at the skin. “You like this, don’t you Sansa?”

           “Y-yes.” It was breathy.

           “You want more of this?”

           “Yes.” There was no use denying it. Her body was as flush against his as this position would allow, and Sansa felt her hips moving slowly along his legs. 

           “Are you wet for me, Sansa?”

           She  _ was _ . She could feel it between her legs, a delicious thrum, one that grew more and more insistent. Sansa opened her mouth — and a shred of clarity came back to her. “We—! We can’t do it  _ here _ —!”

           “No?” 

           “No.” It took a few pounding heartbeats to catch the amusement in his word. Like he was testing her, not agreeing. “We’ll be seen!”

           “I think you don’t understand  _ who _ I am.”

           She didn’t. If he  _ was _ somebody, somebody  _ actually _ important, then he was used to getting the things he wanted. But to  _ her _ , Petyr Baelish was just a stranger. A strange man, with a lot of money, and a damn good mouth. 

           “If you want to leave, Sansa, then go,” he said into her ear. His other hand, the one not lost in her hair, creeped down to cup her ass. Sansa gasped at the movement. Petyr was drawing his fingers dangerously close to her center. “But just know that you’ll be thinking about me your entire flight home. And your entire vacation home. You entire  _ life _ . Because I  _ know _ how wet you are for me, Sansa sweetling. I can smell it.”

           She anticipated him shoving his hand down her pants and finding the truth of her desire writ plainly on her soiled underwear. He didn’t. Petyr liked to do things unlike what she expected, Sansa found out.

           She could do that, too.

           “And if I stay?”

           Petyr very much liked that answer. His eyes were black as pitch, but they smiled wickedly in tune with that just as wicked mouth. “Then you won’t regret it.”

           Sansa hated — loved? — that damned look on him. 

           Sansa reached for the hand on her ass, tugging it free. Petyr relented, curiosity sparking his eyes as he watched her. She heard her own heartbeat in her head, the sound loud enough to drown whatever shrieking cries telling her to  _ stop _ . All the while, Sansa kept her gaze on him. It wouldn’t work to lose her courage now.

           Bringing his hand to the front of her pants, easing his fingertips into her waistband, Sansa said, “Prove it.”

           Petyr  _ liked _ that. She felt it.

           “Oh, Sansa, you’re a dangerous thing, aren’t you?”

           His fingers forwent the modest propriety of fingering her above her underwear, finding the band of that and slipping under. Petyr found her wet, and soon found her gasping as he slid the length of his finger down her slit. Sansa’s toes curled.

           “Just as I thought,” Petyr said, pulling her head back towards him. He licked the line of her jaw. “So very, very wet for me.”

           He didn’t push himself inside her, finding more fun in the agony of toying with her lower lips, with dragging a fingernail along the line of her cunt. Sansa tried, shoving her hips down onto his hand. Petyr knew, feeling her body aching for far more than he was willing to give right now. Everytime she tried he pulled away.

           Petyr pulled his hand free the last time she tried, shaking his head with a  _ tsk tsk _ . “There’s no point in rushing, you know.”

           Sansa had to bite her lip. She wasn’t  _ rushing _ ; she just never felt so...built up before. Like her body  _ needed _ the release or else she would explode. A small part of her was suddenly regretting that kiss. Another part of her (the larger part) hated him for not hurrying it up already. “Please,” she begged.

           Again, that smile returned. Or did it ever leave? “You’ll come, I promise. But good things come to those who wait.”

           He gripped her waist without warning, flipping her faceup on the chair. Sansa felt smaller than she had, staring up at him like this. Whoever he was in the real world, it definitely was somebody important.

           “Lift up your jackets.” 

           Sansa did as she was told, managing to lift up her shirt and jackets (two, because it was too damn cold and she didn’t have room to shove it in her suitcase). Her bra, unfortunately, wasn’t her prettiest. She was traveling, for gods’ sake, why would she need to wear her cute one?

           She really wished she did.

           Petyr didn’t seem fazed at all. “And your pants, please.”

           She did that, too, managing to shoo them down to her knees. Sansa knew she made a sight — half-dressed in an airport lounge, looking even less like she fit in.

           The man above her didn’t think so. Or maybe that was the good bit of her brain thinking it. He stared at her body, exploring it with his eyes. Sansa didn’t miss how he licked his lips as his gaze traveled over her underwear.

           “Are you on the pill?”

           Sansa shook her head. She  _ had _ been, with Joffrey, who insisted on it because he hated having to wear a condom. Since the breakup, Sansa used up the rest of her prescription and forgot to refill it. Her broken heart told her she wouldn’t find someone again, and not for a long time. A penance, of sorts.

           Now she wished she was. 

           “A pity,” Petyr said, as though mirroring her thoughts. “I used up my last condom fucking the flight attendants on my way in.”

           Sansa had no idea if he was joking or not. She wouldn’t put it past him; who wouldn’t fall on their hands and knees for him?

           Petyr unbuckled his pants, and like him watching her earlier, Sansa couldn’t draw her gaze away. Mesmerized by the motion of his hands, by the glisten of her need on his right forefinger. Slowly, painfully, he undid the button, too, and the zipper.

           Petyr pulled his cock out, stroking it a few times. He was as hard as she was wet, and Sansa barely even touched him.

           “Unfortunately, you’ll have to be quiet, Sansa.” At her look of confusion, he explained, “I’ve just heard some people enter. And as much as  _ I _ don’t mind giving them a show, I’d hate for them to see you like this.”

           What a gentleman.

           Petyr positioned his cock against her clothed cunt. Sansa’s hips moved faster than her brain could process his words: they weren’t alone, and they could be — would be — caught.

           She hated the thrill of fear that shot between her legs at the idea.

           “Hungry, hm?” he said, before pulling back enough to slide her panties down. Not the whole way; just enough to stick his cock between the fabric and her skin. Sansa shuddered at the feel of him, warm and hard. Petyr pulled up on her underwear, forcing themselves against each other as close as possible.

           Sansa moved before him, but not by much. Petyr grabbed her waist, and she reached up for his shoulders, and they rutted like that on the chair. It was far from the glamor of the rooms outside this one, and far from the sweet way her prince would take her in her dreams. But by all Seven who were holy, even the Stranger, Sansa didn’t want it to  _ stop _ .

           It felt an eternity; it felt a second. Sansa felt her release bubbling up dangerously close to the surface with each thrust. Her mouth hung open, and she couldn’t manage to keep her eyes open. All that existed was the press of Petyr’s hands on her bare skin, and the thickness of his cock against her. Just right, he would brush apart her lips and her clit, and Sansa didn't bother stoppering the moans.

           A hand was on her mouth, and Petyr’s warning filled her head. There were people in the room with them. They could  _ see _ her, fucking a stranger. 

           Sansa rolled her hips faster.

           It wasn’t long until she broke a shuddering gasp onto Petyr’s hand, her body releasing against the length of him. He continued, two strokes, three, before Sansa felt his cock shudder with his own release two. Their come mixed on the inside of her underwear, and the faint understanding that she hadn’t a spare was wrong and hot at the same time.

           It was — in it’s very dirty, very not-Sansa Stark way — a souvenir.

           Petyr’s collapsed onto her chest. His breaths tickled over her bra. Sansa felt the thunder of his heart and hers, listened to it as she wrapped her hands around him.  _ Don’t go _ , she wanted to say.  _ Please don’t go _ .

           He had to, she knew. He was a big-shot business man, and she was, well, not much. Petyr probably wouldn’t even remember the girl he seduced on Christmas morning, and that thought soured her orgasm. 

           Sansa closed her eyes, and wished she never talked to him in the first place.

           “Next time,” he whispered, the mingled smell of come and mint tickling her nose. “Next time, we’ll have a proper fuck.”

           Sansa loathed that it wouldn’t happen.

* * *

           “May I walk you to your gate?”

           They stood outside the Westerosi Air lounge entrance, clothes and hair righted as though they hadn’t a secret lovers’ rendezvous. They didn’t see Charles on their way out, though the upper floor had a handful of people who were too stunned by the sunrise to (hopefully) miss their show. Tuomas only said “Thank you for your business, and have a safe flight,” as they left.

           She watched him straighten his cufflinks. Sansa wanted to say  _ Yes _ as much as she wanted to say  _ No _ . In the end, his chivalry won her out, and she nodded.

           They were quiet on their walk through the terminal. Sansa checked her watch: it was nearing seven. After their not-quite-fuck, Petyr ordered another whiskey and Sansa a water. They talked about meaningless things, like they had down at Starbucks. Petyr alluded to the idea of another fuck (right there), though Sansa politely declined. A joke about ‘too much of a good thing would give her cavities.’ Petyr — in his not-quite-gentlemanly ways — didn’t push her.

           Sansa said she had to go grab breakfast, trying to worm herself free, but Petyr insisted on making use of the lounge’s restaurant. The smell of it betrayed Sansa’s stomach, and she relented to eggs benedict. It was a surprise she ate it all; at least, until Petyr joked that she’d need to eat to keep up her energy.

           “This is me,” she said, arriving at B23, and at the end of their pseudo-relationship. One night stand? Sansa mulled over the definition of hooking up with a man in an airport for longer than she would like to admit. At what point is it  _ not _ a one night stand? Talking and breakfast belied something more like a relationship, but they were parting ways. He didn’t even know her full name.

           “Well then, Sansa,” he grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it. She didn’t want to say goodbye to that mouth, either. “Safe travels.”

           “You too.”

           It wasn’t  _ goodbye _ , she knew, watching him swagger off down the terminal to his own gate. Maybe...maybe she’d have to fly more often, in the hopes of meeting him again.

           Sansa shot a short text home:  _ Finally going to board the plane home! See you soon! :) And merry merry Christmas!! _ She settled on just two tree emojis before sending it.

           Those uncomfortable chairs were packed now, and Sansa managed to squeeze herself down in an empty chair. Not too long before she was finally on the plane and-

           “Paging passengers Stark and Goldstein. If you are in the area please come up to the counter, thank you.”

           Sansa startled at her name. Nightmares flooded her brain:  _ Sorry miss, but we can’t book you on this flight it’s completely full. Sucks to be you, huh? _

           Sansa didn’t want to spend anymore time in this wretched airport.

           She approached the counter, warily, like an animal sizing up a trap. “Yes?” Realizing after a second that they wouldn’t know who she was (she wasn’t made of money like  _ some _ people). “I’m passenger Stark.”

           “Congrats,” the attendant said, holding out her hand. Sansa stared at it confused. “Your boarding pass, miss?”

_ My boarding pass…? _ But the ‘congrats’ at least meant Sansa wasn’t going to be stranded in the gods-forsaken airport any longer than necessary. She hoped. Sansa dug through her jacket pockets, finding it in the last one. It was considerably more worn than it had been when she woke up this morning.

           The attendant (who’s name tag read Cheryl) checked it really was Sansa before tearing it up. Sansa cringed. A cringed that was replaced with confusion, as Cheryl handed her a newly printed boarding pass (no crinkles in sight). Her voice was dripping with retail-happiness as she said, “Enjoy your flight, and happy holidays!”

           Sansa tried to reply  _ Happy holidays _ , too, but the words caught in her throat.

           She managed two steps away from the counter before stopping dead in her tracks.

_ Ms Stark Sansa _ , read the new pass in bright block letters.  _ Group 1. Seat 2C. _

           This must be a mistake, she thought. Sansa turned to approach Cheryl and let her know there must be a something wrong with their systems. Or at least, that Sansa in now way could afford a first class flight on Christmas morning. She didn’t even want to  _ think _ how many zeroes were in the price.

           “Oh, what luck, Sansa,” came a voice behind her. Sansa whirled, finding that damned man not three feet from her. 

           “You—!” But the curse, or prayer, or whatever it might have been stuck in her throat. She also didn’t trust her words, not in a room of crowded strangers all bored enough to eavesdrop. Instead, she held up her new pass, as damning evidence.

           Petyr, meanwhile, held up his on his phone. Just below his name, his seat: 2A. 

           It seemed that Petyr — a man of much money, many talents, and a delightful mouth — didn’t give up on whispered promises made in the afterglow of sex. 

           A blush crept up Sansa’s face. She looked at him, finding a familiar, twisted smile curling Petyr’s lips. “It seems we’re on the same flight home. What a Christmas miracle, don’t you think?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Slight canonical inaccuracies re: my understanding of airline lounges, but sue me I ain’t rich.
> 
> Also @ Dulles you can kiss my ass
> 
> Also also: happy holidays again!!!! Stay toasty, friends!]


End file.
